


Re-Established Between the Soul and the Star

by NoRationalThoughtRequired



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, Humor, Les Amis de l'ABC - Freeform, M/M, Multi, POV Alternating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 19:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2518640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoRationalThoughtRequired/pseuds/NoRationalThoughtRequired
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every year, Combeferre and Joly have an unofficial, friendly Halloween costume contest in which they dress up as real or fictional rival scientists. This year, however.  This year, they both want to be Nikola Tesla, and neither of them want to be Thomas Edison. Controversy ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Re-Established Between the Soul and the Star

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hiyas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hiyas/gifts).



> Hiyas wrote a lovely [ficlet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1115842/chapters/5315330) in which Les Amis plan to dress as characters from Rocky Horror Picture Show for Halloween. Cosette and Marius would be Janet and Brad. Grantaire and Éponine would be Riff Raff and Magenta. Combeferre and Courfeyrac would both be Dr. Frank-N-Furter. And Éponine convinced Enjolras to be Rocky. I loved the idea of Combeferre dressing as a mad scientist and wondered in a comment whether he and Joly would have scientist costume contests. She thought that they would absolutely fight over who gets to be Tesla and suggested that I write a fic about it. I said "don't mind if I do," and now, 19,000 words later, here we are. Enjoy!
> 
> (Note: This fic does talk in detail about the movie The Prestige, so if you haven't seen it, read at your own risk!) (Just covering my bases here.)
> 
> \--
> 
> “We might almost say: There will be no more events. Men will be happy. The human race will fulfill its law as the terrestrial globe fulfills its own; harmony will be re-established between the soul and the star; the soul will gravitate about the truth like the star about the light.”  
>  _Les Misérables_ , "What Horizon Is Visible from the Top of the Barricade"

**1 October**

“Friends, guess what!” Courfeyrac bursts into the Musain, arriving just shy of 7:00 and out of breath, clearly having sprinted across campus from the administration building that also houses the student government meeting rooms in a successful effort to make it to a Les Amis meeting on time. “We have a theme for the Halloween party!”

Bahorel, who had been precariously balancing his chair on its hind legs and worrying both Marius and Joly, sitting on either side of him, slams the front legs of his chair back safely on the ground, and he very nearly pounds the table in anticipation. “Well, don’t keep us in suspense, Courf!”

Courfeyrac pauses and Bahorel, Feuilly, Grantaire, and Bossuet take the cue and do a drum roll on the table with their hands. (Courfeyrac is a drama minor, alright; he knows how to make these moments count.) “ _Blinded Me With Science_.” He grins broadly, spreading his hands wide as if to say _who’s awesome? That’s right, **I** am._

He doesn’t get the reaction he expects as Combeferre snorts and Jehan raises a dubious eyebrow. “That’s the name of the theme?”

“It’s a work in progress, okay?” Courfeyrac blusters, and it’s apparent to everyone just who had suggested the theme for the party to the student government.

“I don’t think anyone has publicized or tweeted the theme name yet, so it could still change, if you all think it’s so terrible. So if anyone has any alternate suggestions?”

Everyone remains silent in favor of exchanging bemused glances around the table.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Courfeyrac allows a hint of smugness to enter his tone. “You have yours truly to thank for the lack of pronoun in the theme name, by the way. Courfeyrac at your service, constantly striving to advance our agenda and bring down the administration from within!” He slams his fist into his open palm as he walks to his usual seat. “I argued vociferously that ‘ _She_ Blinded Me With Science’ would be far too exclusive, as I, for one, would need to sing ‘ _He_ Blinded Me With Science.’”

He pauses to give Combeferre a dazzling grin, prompting a small, pleased smile in response. “Which is true, you know,” Courfeyrac continues, “When we met—”

“ _We know, Courf!_ ” The entire group, as one, including Combeferre, shout. They’ve all heard Courfeyrac tell the story approximately a thousand times in an appropriately dramatic fashion:

The story of how a bright-eyed young Courfeyrac, newly arrived at college and ready to take on the universe, was minding his own business, kneeling down and trying to find the best copy of the textbook he would need for his Intro to Sociology class, which happened to be located on the bottom shelf of that particular bookcase, when suddenly monstrously heavy physics textbooks came raining down from the sky upon his unsuspecting head. An over-excited Bossuet had tripped on his shoelace, falling into Combeferre, who had been on his way over to the chemistry section, and causing a chain reaction leading to a head injury and unexpected love.

Combeferre, unable to reverse his momentum, had then fallen into a wobbly stack of physics books, which then had toppled over onto Courfeyrac. In the aftermath, Combeferre, with his kind eyes and hipster glasses and a sweater vest even though it was late August, had carefully carded his fingers through Courfeyrac’s hair, feeling for bumps, and had murmured in his soft voice, _don’t worry, I’m pre-med_ , before telling Courfeyrac a truly terrible physics joke to distract him from the head trauma.

“What does a subatomic duck say? Quark!” Combeferre had rushed to answer himself when Courfeyrac had just stared at him, afraid that Courfeyrac was angry at him or unappreciative of science jokes, but in truth Courfeyrac had been so delighted at the fact that this gorgeous boy was also apparently a huge nerd that he had been momentarily struck dumb. He had quickly recovered his wits and reassured Combeferre by laughing uproariously, and he had been smitten instantly, and now here they were, three years later, and he still laughs every time ‘Ferre tells a dumb science joke, and it’s a great story, he doesn’t understand why their friends don’t appreciate it more, clearly kids today just have no respect for romance, it’s a crying shame.

“So,” Grantaire begins, casually drumming his fingers with no discernible rhythm on the edge of the table, his sketchbook, and Éponine’s stack of books to his left and drawing Courfeyrac back to the present, “the science theme. This is your influence, Courf?”

Courfeyrac bends down to kiss Combeferre on the cheek before sliding into the seat next to him. “I may or may not have strong-armed them all into it.”

He turns to face Combeferre and Joly, further down the table, “And look, you two! Your costumes will actually be relevant this year!”

When they met on the first day of their freshman year in Intro to Chemistry, Combeferre and Joly had instantly struck up a friendship based on their mutual love of science and the fact that both of them planned to go to medical school eventually. One of the ways their friendship manifests itself is in their unofficial Halloween costume contest each year, in which they merrily disregard the university’s theme for the massive Halloween party held on the campus esplanade and usually (but not always, depending on what their respective significant others have planned) dress as rival scientists, either real or fictional. They devised some kind of point system for the costumes that no one other than the two of them can decipher, and the current winner of the contest (and the margin by which said person is winning) is variable and constantly up for debate.

Joly snorts derisively and says, “Shows how little you know, friend. Scientist costumes are _always_ relevant.”

Combeferre nods at Joly in solidarity, but when he turns to Courfeyrac, he merely arches an eyebrow in disapproval over Courfeyrac’s denigration of the sanctity of the Great Halloween Rival Scientist Costume Contest. Courfeyrac winces at how his gesture with the science theme went awry so quickly, and he resolves to make it up to Combeferre by making a batch of chocolate-chocolate-chip cookies the next afternoon so they’ll be ready when Combeferre gets out of his afternoon lab. (That will go a long way to restoring harmony. He knows that chocolate is ‘Ferre’s not-so-secret weakness, and that chocolate-y things made for him by his boyfriend are doubly so.)

Everyone starts discussing potential ideas for costumes, and Courfeyrac smiles to see that, initial mockery of the name of the theme notwithstanding, everyone seems to have warmed to the idea and that enthusiasm is quickly rising.

He overhears Feuilly and Jehan both state their admiration for when people dress up as concepts rather than as characters or real people.

“I think that this year,” Jehan muses, idly brushing the end of his braid back and forth across his lips, “I’d really like to see someone dress as nuclear fusion.”

Musichetta, two seats over from him on the other side of Feuilly, asks, “How would they even accomplish that?”

Jehan just smiles brightly and shrugs. “I don’t know! That’s why I’d like to see it.”

Musichetta considers that for a moment and shrugs as well. “Fair enough,” she says before turning to Bossuet and Joly to begin brainstorming.

Across the table from them, Courfeyrac hears Éponine throwing out suggestions for Grantaire, ranging from Einstein to Copernicus to Dexter from _Dexter’s Laboratory_ to Darwin to Doc Brown before Grantaire abruptly sits up straight in his chair and clutches Éponine’s arm. “Éponine,” he says urgently, blue eyes wide with the spark of inspiration. “ _Carl Sagan_.”

 _That’s not a bad choice_ , Courfeyrac thinks, and apparently Éponine agrees, although she does narrow her eyes. “Wait a minute. I know Sagan’s awesome and all, but do you just want to go around saying ‘we are star stuff’ all night?”

“Yeah, obviously.” Grantaire doesn’t even bother trying to deny it; Éponine knows him too well and will sniff out the lie instantly. “That is _absolutely_ a valid reason to pick a particular costume.”

(Privately, Courfeyrac agrees. He has a similar plan, after all. He’ll admit to himself that although he did suggest a science theme in part because of Combeferre, he has a second ulterior motive as well.)

“Hey Ep!” Courfeyrac calls across the table. “Who are you thinking about?”

“Ada Lovelace,” she responds immediately, raising an eyebrow in a silent dare to challenge her.

Combeferre nods appreciatively. “That’s a good choice,” he says in his perfectly sincere way, not at all trying to placate her, and a genuine smile spreads over Éponine’s face as she nods her thanks.

(Courfeyrac can’t help but recall Éponine’s wariness when she first started coming to Les Amis meetings with Bahorel and Grantaire and how she seemed suspicious of their intentions and their willingness to offer help and assistance to her whenever she needed it, whether it be a tutor for Gavroche when he was staying with her and she had to pick up an emergency shift at work or a delivery of her favorite cupcakes when she was stressed before an exam, and he thinks of how her initial reticence has blossomed into camaraderie with all of them, and an intense friendship with Combeferre in particular and an equally intense relationship with Enjolras, and he has to turn away from her to hide a joyous smile.)

Luckily, everyone’s attention is diverted by Bahorel booming, “Cosette! You’ve got to have an idea for you and Marius.”

“Of course,” she replies, with a sweet smile thrown Bahorel’s way. “Marius, if you’re amenable, I think the Curies would be a wonderful choice.”

“Madame Curie . . . she was a badass,” Bahorel offers, and Cosette nods her agreement.

“I am absolutely amenable,” Marius says, to no one’s surprise. “Was Monsieur Curie a badass as well?”

“He was indeed,” Cosette replies. “Correct, resident biochemistry major?” she asks Combeferre, who assents.

“And Bahorel?” Cosette adds, before Bossuet and Musichetta, who are having an animated conversation across the table while Joly looks at them with fond amusement, can distract him. “I think you and Feuilly should do Frankenstein and the Creature.”

“Yes!” Feuilly instantly concurs.

“You’re just enthusiastic because your hair is crazier than mine, and I’m a bigger dude, so you’d be the better fit as Frankenstein, and I’ll have to be the Creature,” Bahorel complains.

“You don’t want to be the Creature?” Cosette asks with a look of concern.

Bahorel shrugs in response. “He’s okay, I guess, but I’ve been him before. Growing up, I would always get put in the standard ‘big guy’ costumes like that, so it’s kind of been done for me, you know?”

Cosette hums and chews lightly on her lip as she considers this. “Well,” she finally says, “What if you still do Frankenstein and the Creature, _but_ you do Frankenstein and the Creature as done in _Young Frankenstein_? That way, you could both dress in tuxedos and do the scene where they perform ‘Puttin’ on the Ritz’!”

“Cosette,” Bahorel reaches across Marius to lay his hand over hers, folded primly on the table. “You have a brilliant, beautiful mind, and I love the way it works. Feuilly, you down?”

“I can get on board with this,” Feuilly agrees.

“Wait!” Grantaire slams both his palms on the table to get their attention. “That idea is, in fact, totally awesome, Cosette, but I think I may have a better one, and it would allow Bahorel to play against type by playing a smaller dude.”

“Speak, friend!” Bahorel entreats him.

“You guys do the _Young Frankenstein_ thing, and Feuilly as Frederick, which will be awesome, but _you_ , good sir, you go as Igor.”

Bahorel’s eyes positively light up with glee at all of the one-liner possibilities. “Igor has so many good lines.”

“So many,” Grantaire solemnly agrees.

“Feuilly?”

“Let’s do it.”

Bahorel cheers, and Feuilly also grins, but then he has a thought. “Bahorel, do you think Aimee would mind being Frau Blücher?”

Marius dutifully makes a neighing noise at “Frau Blücher,” which causes Bahorel to roar with laughter and slap him on the back, leaving him slightly winded. “Good man, Pontmercy!”

Marius coughs and mutters _thanks_ , but he’s smiling broadly. Everyone at the table knows from experience that it’s far beyond all of them not to get swept up in Bahorel’s enthusiasm.

Bahorel’s smile somehow grows even larger. “Don’t worry. Aimee knows the comedic potential inherent in that part. She’ll totally do it. Cosette, R, Feuilly—you guys are geniuses.”

Cosette and R high five each other and share smirks with Feuilly that very clearly communicate _we **are** pretty awesome_.

A hush falls over the rest of the group, and Courfeyrac knows that none of them are willing to admit that Bahorel’s life is a complete mystery to them and that none of them have any idea who this Aimee is. _Obviously a girl . . . ?_ That’s it, that’s all Courfeyrac has got.

Finally, after watching them all look around trying to discern if anyone _else_ looked confused while simultaneously pretending that they absolutely know what is going on, Feuilly bemusedly clues them in. “His girlfriend.”

“She’s a bartender at the Corinthe,” Grantaire adds helpfully. “Where we’ve gone only a hundred times or so in the past year.”

“No? Nothing?” Bahorel chooses amusement, rather than offense, at everyone’s ignorance. “We started casually dating before Musichetta joined the Golden Trio, _and_ we got all of our relationship shit together before Éponine and Enjolras managed to do the same, come on, guys.”

Éponine, for her part, gives Bahorel a very unimpressed eyebrow raise. Everyone else just looks sheepish.

Marius, bless him for his inability to tolerate an awkward situation, abruptly changes the subject and asks, without finesse and in a complete non-sequitur, “What about you, Courfeyrac? Who do you think you’d like to be?”

“Alexander Graham Bell,” he shoots back immediately.

That response knocks Combeferre a bit off balance, and he turns to Courfeyrac. “Random choice. And quickly said.” He narrows his eyes. “What are you planning?”

Courfeyrac just looks immensely pleased and shrugs. “Guess you’ll find out in a month.”

Now it’s evidently Combeferre’s turn to look unimpressed. “It’s not a surprise party.”

“ _It could be_. Maybe I’ll suggest _that_ to my fellow student representatives,” he says haughtily, with a poke to Combeferre’s ribs for good measure.

“Well, I know who I’m going to be,” Bossuet announces, preventing Combeferre from retaliating. Courfeyrac could kiss him for his good timing, for once. “Dr. Evil.”

Grantaire nods. “Yeah, I can see that. You’ve got the bald thing going on, that’ll be nice.”

Musichetta shoots Grantaire a glare for enabling Bossuet. “How am _I_ supposed to do something with that?”

“Dr. Evil does have a son, you know, so there must be someone.” The entire group turns to Bahorel, who readily provides the answer: Frau Farbissina.

Musichetta consults Wikipedia on her phone and just _looks_ at Bossuet while Joly snickers. “Bossuet, I love you, but no.”

Bossuet looks vaguely panicked. Joly takes pity on his boyfriend and comes to his rescue. “Frau Farbissina also wasn’t a scientist, I don’t think, right Bahorel? So that wouldn’t work anyway. Why don’t you just keep it broad and say that the theme for you two is ‘pop culture scientists.’ That way, Bossuet, you can still be Dr. Evil, and Musichetta, you can pick whomever you want who is a scientist in some form of media.”

Musichetta needs no time to decide. “All right. A badass female scientist? That I can do. Ellen Ripley. Anyone have a problem?”

Everyone sits quietly for a moment. Éponine and Cosette both raise their fists in badass-ladies solidarity. No one has a problem with Musichetta’s choice.

“Alright,” Courfeyrac claps his hands together, “so that just leaves Jehan and our usual science nerds and Enjolras.” He looks around, noticing for the first time, that Enjolras isn’t even there. “Hey, where’s Enjolras? Why isn’t he here yet? He’s never late; this is _his_ meeting! Has he been abducted by a pod person? _Do we have an Invasion of the Body Snatchers situation right now_?”

“Oh my god, Courfeyrac,” Éponine throws Grantaire’s eraser at him, hitting him square in the middle of his forehead. “He has a late meeting with Lamarque about his senior thesis. He told ‘Ferre and I that he might not make it in until around 7:30. He’s not a _pod person_.”

Courfeyrac pretends to wipe his forehead in relief, and Éponine rolls her eyes. She continues, “And don’t you worry about Enjolras and his costume. He’ll wear what I tell him to wear, and he’ll enjoy it.”

Grantaire snickers and says with a wicked smirk, “Is this going to be like last year?”

“Look how well that turned out!”

Grantaire’s smirk somehow manages to turn _even more_ wicked. “Yeah, I’m not going to actually say _I told you so_ , but I want you to know that I am definitely thinking it.”

Éponine turns to Grantaire, clearly about to lay into him, and Courfeyrac knows that he has to defuse this situation, but the only way he can think of is to blurt out, “Jehan! Dazzle us!”

“I’ve been thinking, and I’ve got the perfect idea.” Jehan’s quiet voice always manages to soothe ruffled feathers; he’s the only one of them, besides perhaps Combeferre and maybe Cosette, who never needs to shout to make himself heard.

“If Feuilly hadn’t taken Frankenstein, I would have, and I considered Mary Shelley because, seriously, this school could use a good case of someone saying _fuck the gender binary_ , but I think I’ve decided on Sir Humphrey Davy.”

That name does not ring a bell to Courfeyrac, but he appears to be in good company, as only Combeferre, Joly, and Feuilly show signs of recognition. “Explain?” he requests.

Jehan smiles patiently, quite used to needing to explain his more esoteric interests. “He mainly worked in the 1790s, early decades of the 1800s, around then. His major work was with nitrous oxide, right, Combeferre? Laughing gas?” Combeferre nods, and Courfeyrac leans in to kiss his cheek. Comebeferre rolls his eyes, but he does also smile, so Courfeyrac considers it a victory. “But he also invented the Davy Lamp, which was used in coal mines and was significantly less likely to cause explosions, _and_ he was a poet.”

Courfeyrac whistles. “So a little obscure, huh? I like it!”

Jehan beams back at him. “Thanks!”

“So, aside from Enjolras’s mystery costume, that just leaves The Science Twins,” Bahorel says. “Knock us out, guys. What’s the plan this year?”

“Well,” Combeferre begins, looking down the table at Joly, “I’ve had this idea for a while now, and I’m a little surprised we haven’t done it before.”

“I have an idea as well,” Joly adds. “I think it’s fitting that it’s being saved for our senior year. Although I’m sure ‘Ferre and I will continue to hold the Great Halloween Rival Scientist Costume Contest for many years to come, this will be our last chance to wow everyone at this school. Unless we both go here for med school, which could happen! Musichetta, remind me to make the appropriate offerings to Hippocrates and the medical school gods when we’re done here.”

Musichetta rolls her eyes, but she does also make a note on her phone.

“Oooooh,” Combeferre looks excited, he always gets so thrilled over dressing up for Halloween as a scientist, and it’s adorable and Courfeyrac wants to kiss him again. “You have a good idea?”

“I have a _great_ idea.”

“Mine is pretty great, too, Joly, I don’t know how we’re going to be able to choose which one to do.”

“Trust me, ‘Ferre, my idea is _outstanding_.”

“Alright, we get it!” Éponine shouts. “You both have fantastic ideas! Shut up about how great they are and just _tell us_ already!”

“I thought I could be Nikola Tesla and you be Thomas Edison,” Combeferre says.

“Tesla versus Edison, my friend! With me as Tesla, of course,” Joly says at the same time.

The entire table goes dead silent. Combeferre and Joly stare at each other, the bright smiles slowly slipping from their faces. Courfeyrac holds his breath. Marius looks as if he’s expecting a brawl to start any second. Bahorel does as well, but he looks a bit more excited about that prospect.

“You can’t be Tesla,” Combeferre finally states, finding his voice first. “ _I_ want to be Tesla.”

“Well, I think it’s great that you want to be Tesla., and I’m sure you would make a _fantastic_ Tesla. But _like hell_ am I going to be Edison, so you best think again, friend,” Joly retorts.

Ordinarily, Combeferre and Joly are the two of the group most willing to compromise, to give in for the sake of keeping the peace, to say _it’s okay, I’ll do this other thing_ genuinely and sincerely, without any hint of disappointment. But now, now there is not an inch of give in either one of them, and everyone at the table can sense it.

“Well. We’ve got a problem here,” Combeferre bites out through a clenched jaw.

“Looks like we do,” Joly coolly replies.

Courfeyrac is about 1000% sure they would be perfectly content to stare daggers at each other the rest of the evening, silently willing the other to back down and relent, and so he thanks every deity he can think of that Enjolras chooses that moment to finally walk into the Musain, already proclaiming apologies as he heads to the counter to order what has to be the biggest cup of coffee humanly possible.

Courfeyrac gets up to join him at the counter, more because he feels a pressing need to temporarily escape the table, where Joly and Combeferre have only just now stopped staring each other down, than because he has anything of importance to tell Enjolras.

Enjolras looks harassed and utterly frazzled, and so Courfeyrac claps his hand on Enjolras’s shoulder and decides to say something completely irrelevant in the hope that something in the universe is smiling upon them at that moment and that it will put Enjolras at ease. Or, as at ease as he can be when he’s nearly an hour late and there’s injustice to fight. “You wouldn’t happen to be a pod person, would you?”

Enjolras looks completely taken aback as he collects his coffee. “What? _No._ ”

Bossuet overhears them and looks up from where he’s been patting Joly reassuringly on the knee. “Pretty sure a pod person would know to say that, though. This proves nothing, Enjolras. Constant vigilance, Courf!”

Enjolras just shakes his head in bewilderment and walks to the front of the table, studiously ignoring a pointed look from Éponine undoubtedly concerning the very large cup of coffee he clutches like a lifeline even though it is fast approaching 8:00 at night, but Courfeyrac slaps Bossuet on the back and says, “You too, friend.”

As Courfeyrac takes his seat, Enjolras stands in front of everyone and pulls out about half the contents of his bag, searching for his tablet with their agenda. “Thanks for waiting. My apologies for being late, I had hoped we would be done in time, but I missed that by . . . a lot,” he says as he looks at his watch, to chuckles from most everyone.

“If it happens again and I’m not here by a quarter after, why don’t you go ahead and start things, ‘Ferre?”

Combeferre nods in agreement, and he even does so easily, although Courfeyrac can see the tension still present in his shoulders, and before he turns his attention to his own tablet, he sees Joly and Combeferre exchange glares one last time.

 _This isn’t over_ , Joly’s glare reads.

 _I didn’t think it was_ , Combeferre’s replies.

+++++

**7 October**

“I’m trying to find a way to incorporate some of Davy’s poetry into my costume, but this is harder than one would think,” Jehan complains to Combeferre as they walk to class after a light lunch at the campus café with Feuilly, who had headed off in the opposite direction to the engineering building, and Grantaire, who had stayed to sketch a family of semi-feral cats that prowled about the patio.

Combeferre’s class on existentialism, for reasons unknown to everyone except perhaps those in the administration (and probably most of _them_ don’t even know; Dean Javert makes strange decisions all the time seemingly based solely on arbitrary whims), is not in the same building with all of the other philosophy classes but is instead located in the building that houses the English department. Jehan won’t question fate in this instance, however; it’s rare for him to get to spend some one-on-one time with Combeferre, and he enjoys the few minutes they get to chat along the way. They usually discuss their classes to start with, which is fine because Jehan loves discussing the existentialist void of meaninglessness and Combeferre doesn’t seem to mind talking about 19th Century American Poetry, but their conversations always veer off into the unexpected. Last Friday it was particle physics and the Higgs Bosun. On Wednesday it will probably be something like whether the European Union is sustainable. Jehan can’t predict it. He likes that about Combeferre.

Combeferre hums and gives the dilemma some serious thought. Jehan likes _that_ about Combeferre as well. “Well, what ideas have you discarded?”

Jehan shrugs and shifts his stack of poetry books from his right arm to his left. “I thought about doing what I did two years ago, but writing out Romantic-era poetry on a piece of fabric and attaching it to the back of a suit coat with tails doesn’t have the same effect as safety-pinning a fabric square with ‘Fuck the Draft’ written on it to the back of a tattered denim jacket and stomping around in combat boots. It would be eye-catching, certainly, but that’s a bit much, even for me.”

Combeferre laughs, delighted. “I think you might be right about that.”

Two years ago, because it had been a presidential election year, the theme of the Halloween party had been something vaguely political. Jehan had decided to dress up as freedom of speech, because he really does have a great love of conceptual costumes, and he had decided that the best way to do this was to dress up as Cohen, of _Cohen v. California_ fame, who had worn such a jacket with such a message in a courthouse and had run afoul of breach-of-the-peace laws.

He had gotten some strange looks from the other partygoers (although he does get more strange looks whenever he decides to mix his favorite striped sweater with his plaid pants, which is often, because he loves that outfit, and who cares what other people think, anyway?), but he had also happened to bump into Enjolras, who saw the message on the back, exclaimed with glee, and proceeded to engage Jehan in conversation about free speech protections for the next forty-five minutes.

Enjolras, as it turned out, had once discussed _Cohen_ during a debate in high school, and because he had not censored himself when talking about the speech at issue, because he’s Enjolras and _why would he?_ , he had found himself banned from participating in debate contests for the rest of his high school career. When Jehan had expressed his dismay at the censorship and the overly harsh and entirely unnecessary punishment, Enjolras had given him a long, level look and then tugged on the sleeve of his jacket and said, “Come on, you have to meet Combeferre and Courfeyrac,” and Jehan’s life hasn’t been the same ever since.

Just as Jehan is about to ask Combeferre whether he has any suggestions on how to work in the poetry angle (he may have to settle for just carrying around a book of Davy’s poetry as a prop, but he hopes it doesn’t come to that), he sees Joly walking towards them, undoubtedly on his way to the sciences building, carrying a large stack of textbooks and library books with his chin resting on top.

“Joly!” he calls out as he jogs over to take the top two books off the stack. Combeferre follows and grabs a third book, but Jehan is sure that he is not imagining the slight chill that now hangs over them or the way that the bright smile on Joly’s face—present even in anticipation of a long afternoon studying cardiovascular structures in mammals, reptiles, and birds, apparently, if the now-top book on the stack in Joly’s arms is any indication—dimmed slightly when Combeferre followed Jehan over.

“Jehan, thank you, kind sir,” Joly says. “‘Ferre,” he adds with a nod of acknowledgment, not belated enough to be a slight, not _quite_ , but almost.

“Joly,” Combeferre replies, easily enough, but with an edge of tension that had not been present when he had been talking just to Jehan.

Jehan glances between them and inwardly sighs at the expressions of reserved politeness (Combeferre) and wary aloofness (Joly) that grace his friends’ faces. “Still no agreement, then?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

He receives two curt headshakes in return.

He doggedly continues, always the conciliator. “There’s a solution here. We’re all smart people, we’re all friends, we _can_ resolve this,” he says, more forcefully than he normally would, as if he could bend Combeferre and Joly into compromise through sheer force of will.

“We could ask Enjolras for his input,” Combeferre offers, and Jehan could hug him for making the effort, he really could.

Because of the books in his hands, however, he settles for bestowing a bright smile around at Combeferre and Joly. He’s rewarded by an upward twitch at the corner of Combeferre’s lips, and if he keeps that up, he’ll find himself being hugged by Jehan anyway, books-in-hands be damned.

“Hey, there’s a good idea!” Jehan turns his smile directly on Joly. “Didn’t Enjolras help you guys out with the dinosaur guys by making a list of their personality traits and then _your_ personality traits and seeing which one of them would be a good fit for each of you?”

Combeferre clears his throat, but he is still smiling. “‘The dinosaur guys’? Cope and Marsh, you mean?”

Those names sound vaguely familiar to Jehan, so he nods vigorously, trying to keep the relatively light-hearted atmosphere continuing apace. “Sure! Hey, cut me some slack here, I only heard about the preparation business afterwards because that costume was from the night I met you,” he says to Combeferre.

(He does not say, “Hey, I’m only an English major,” because he knows that excuse will _not_ fly with ‘Ferre, who will retort with, “Hey, I’m only a Biochemistry/Philosophy double major, but I can still converse on game theory with Bahorel when need be.” Sometimes, Jehan thinks, Combeferre is actually the worst.)

“And that was before I knew that _you_ ,” he reaches out to pluck at Joly’s sleeve as best he can with six books in his arms, “were friends with ‘Ferre.” He figures it can’t hurt to throw in as many references as he can subtly fit into all conversations for the foreseeable future to the fact that Joly and Combeferre are actually _friends_ , as opposed to real life rivals or nemeses or archenemies.

“I remember.” Joly does smile at that, which is encouraging! Jehan feels very encouraged at the moment, and if the minutes left until their respective classes started weren’t steadily ticking away, he would seriously consider a long, drawn-out group hug, maybe complete with a little dance. (Courfeyrac has a special one for situations like this, in which fences have been mended and friendships restored, and Combeferre, at least, would probably be receptive to Jehan calling for an impromptu performance of his boyfriend’s dance.)

All Jehan needs to do now is confirm that there’s a plan in place for resolving this dispute; he is the master mediator, maybe it’s not too late for him to add a minor in psychology—he could maybe become a counselor, supplement what will surely be a meager income while he is a grad student/starving poet next year, this is _great_ , his afternoon is off to a great start. “So, yes, I’m sure Enjolras would love to help!”

And then it all goes wrong. Bossuet’s bad luck has clearly somehow transferred to Jehan, maybe through Joly’s presence, he’s not sure, because Joly, while strolling through memory lane with Jehan to two Halloweens ago, picks this moment to remember a rather inconvenient fact. “No. _No_ , we are _not_ asking _Enjolras_ to resolve this, the very same Enjolras who happens to be _his_ best friend. I wonder what the outcome would be!” Joly’s tone practically _drips_ with derision, and Jehan deeply regrets every life choice that has led him to this moment.

Surely he can count on Combeferre to be a voice of reason, this moment of peace and reconciliation can still be salvaged, Jehan’s legacy as one who brings others together is still in tact—

“I’m trying here, Joly!” Combeferre throws his hands up, almost sending Joly’s book that he’s still holding flying through the air, and Jehan would knock their heads together, he really would, but for the fact that Combeferre towers over both of them, and so he’s not sure how he would accomplish this without causing grievous bodily harm to someone.

“Yeah, trying to find a way for _you_ to be Tesla!”

Jehan makes one last-ditch effort. “Why don’t you _both_ be Tesla?”

That is surely a sensible solution. He’s about to congratulate himself when he sees that both Combeferre and Joly are glaring at him. “Is that against the rules or something? What about last year? ‘Ferre and Courfeyrac both went as Dr. Frank-N-Furter, but Joly, you didn’t want to go as what’s-his-name . . . .”

“Dr. Scott,” Combeferre quietly supplies.

“Yes! Dr. Scott, so you went as Dr. Horrible instead, and Bossuet and Musichetta were Captain Hammer and Penny, and it was all _very successful_. So how is this situation different?”

The answer, of course, Jehan knows, is that it isn’t different at all. The rules to this costume charade that Combeferre and Joly have going on, well, the rules _are more like guidelines, really_ , or at least that was how Combeferre had explained it to him last year, when he had voiced his questions, but, for some reason, _this_ year, neither Combeferre nor Joly appear to be willing to admit to the fact that there _are_ no rules, this whole thing is entirely unofficial, and they can both do what they like, except, apparently, dress as the same scientist for a goddamn university Halloween party. Jehan senses a migraine encroaching.

Combeferre and Joly, united as one, shout, “ _We can’t both be Tesla!_ ”

Their moment of agreement lasts as long as it takes them to recognize that they had spoken in unison. Jehan gets the feeling that both of them would have stuck their tongues out at the other or called _jinx_ or _something_ , but then they both realized at the very last second just how immature that would have been.

For his part, Jehan has had enough. The Master Mediator has met his match: two of the smartest, kindest, most generous men he knows, unable to agree over a Halloween costume. He stacks Joly’s books back on his stack in defeat. “I’ve got to get to class. Coming, ‘Ferre?”

He notices Combeferre add the book that he was holding to Joly’s stack with more force than is really strictly necessary for the situation, but he declines to say anything in the interest of preserving whatever peace still remains for the rest of their walk into the humanities building.

Yeah, he _definitely_ feels a migraine coming on.

+++++

**10 October**

Cosette firmly believes that sewing can, and should, be a social activity, which is why she insists that Éponine’s sewing lessons take place at the Musain instead of at one of their apartments. Thursday nights are not usually meeting nights (although the group knows that no time is sacred and immune from Enjolras calling an emergency meeting), but at least someone from the group tends to show up, needing a break from studying or paper-writing and seeking some procrastination in the form of social interaction.

Feuilly had filtered in shortly after they had sat down, taking a brief caffeine break before heading off to his evening Electronics lab, and he had expressed his admiration and approval of Cosette’s insistence that all sewing on hers, Marius’s, and Éponine’s costumes be done by hand and not by machine. Éponine, who had just pricked her finger for the fourth time since starting work on attaching a piece of lace to the end of a sleeve, had bestowed a dark look upon both of them and had grumbled something almost-but-not-quite under her breath about it being time to join the 21st Century.

Feuilly had just said, “You never know when you’ll find yourself needing to mend something and a machine won’t be available, Ep,” and had promptly beat a hasty retreat back up to the counter and then out of the Musain when she had growled at him.

Half an hour later, Marius joins them after finishing up tutoring an underclassman in German, and he now sits at their little table in the corner, reading a biography on Pierre Curie.

(The day after Cosette claimed the Curies for their Halloween costume, he had confessed to her that he didn’t know all that much about Pierre Curie, and he thought that he needed to educate himself in case Enjolras somehow telepathically sensed his ignorance and made an example of him at the party. Cosette personally didn’t think that was all that likely—surely Enjolras took offense, he would do it before or after the party, instead of embarrassing Marius in front of all the students who attended—but she had dutifully assisted Marius in finding a few promising sources that looked helpful while at the library later that day.)

He seems blissfully unconcerned about the large heaps of fabric and lace and needles and thread and buttons adorning the table, and Cosette spares a moment to give him a fond smile that he doesn’t see, ensconced in his book as he is.

It’s another half hour before Joly and Combeferre wander in, just finishing up their own Molecular Biology lab. Cosette can’t quite tell what they’re saying, they haven’t yet noticed her and Éponine and Marius, tucked away in the corner, but it appears as though they’ve reached a détente in their ongoing disagreement, as Joly gesticulates wildly over something while donning an exaggerated expression of alarm—Cosette figures it must be related to their lab—and Combeferre smiles almost as broadly as she’s ever seen him, outside the presence of Courfeyrac at least. He says something in reply—they’re still too far away for Cosette to hear exactly what—and Joly laughs, and Cosette’s heart warms to witness it.

Her joy lasts until Combeferre and Joly put in their orders and turn away from the counter and toward their table. They take in Marius learning about his costume inspiration and Cosette and Éponine obviously sewing a costume, and, almost as one, they seem to recall that their own costume woes have yet to be sorted out, and Cosette _sees_ the tension creep into the lines of both of their shoulders. She sighs, audibly and visibly, wanting them to take note of her increasing frustration but instead drawing only the attention of Marius and Éponine, who look up from their respective tasks.

Éponine pricks her finger again, and not even her shouted _damn it!_ derails Joly and Combeferre from their impending argument.

Combeferre tosses his messenger bag down on a nearby table, and Cosette suspects that the only reason he didn’t _slam_ it down is because he must have his tablet in there. “Look, Joly, we can settle this right now. Coin toss. Heads, I’ll be Tesla. Tails, you will.”

“No!” Joly protests, his usually cheerful face alight instead with anger and irritation. “I don’t trust you not to have rigged it!”

Combeferre throws his hands up in frustration. “How would that even _work_? You think I just carry rigged coins on me everywhere I go in case I need to win a coin toss against you concerning a Halloween costume?”

“Don’t pretend ignorance of these things to make me think you’re innocent! If someone could find a way, it’d be you.”

“ _So close_ to being a compliment there.” Cosette’s eyes are fixed on them (even as her hands work by rote sewing a piece of lace to the bodice of Éponine’s dress, her stitches steady and sure), and although Combeferre’s face remains relatively passive, but for the frown lines slowly creeping across his forehead, his tone implies a sneer, and she knows it’s a tone he usually reserves only for those he feels are being obstreperous or willfully obtuse.

Joly, not surprisingly, reacts with a sneer of his own, but his is plain in his voice _and_ on his face. “How clumsy of me. I meant to leave no doubt that I insult.”

The barista calls Combeferre’s name, and as he walks up to the counter, he tosses over his shoulder, “Don’t call my ethics into question!”

“Don’t steal _my_ costume idea!”

“ _Yours?!_ ”

Cosette’s eyebrows inch up towards her hairline. She’s known Combeferre for years now, and this is the loudest she has ever heard him speak save for at protests and rallies.

Marius seems equally perturbed, and he says quietly to her and Éponine, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard ‘Ferre yell before. Not in a situation like this, anyway.”

Éponine perks up from where she’s finally finished attaching the lace to the sleeve. “Oooooh, a few months ago, Enjolras and I heard him yell at Courf for leaving his dirty socks on the floor of his bedroom. ‘ _There’s a clothes basket **right fucking there,** Courfeyrac, how hard can it be?’_” Her imitation of Combeferre’s voice is surprisingly spot-on. Cosette hadn’t known that she could do impressions so well. “The Combeferrian Temper: it’s rare, but it exists.”

Marius whispers, “Was it terrifying?”

Éponine tilts her head to the side and thinks. “A little bit, yeah,” she says slowly. “We retreated to Enjolras’s room and sat there being very quiet for a while so as not to draw his ire our way.”

“Wait.” Cosette can’t let that pass her by. “ _Enjolras_ voluntarily retreated from a confrontation?”

“You know, he’s gotten a lot better at the whole ‘pick your battles’ thing. I know, it surprised me, too,” Éponine adds when Cosette gives her a disbelieving look, “But I also think he didn’t want ‘Ferre, while he was on a rampage about housekeeping or the lack thereof, to get on _his_ case about leaving unwashed coffee mugs out on the counter, so he decided that, for once, discretion is the better part of valor.”

Marius considers this and leans in even closer, and, honestly, Cosette really hopes that neither Combeferre nor Joly is watching them right now, because it must be absolutely 100% obvious that they are currently discussing them, and she can barely handle them yelling at _each other_ right now, she certainly doesn’t need them yelling at _her_. “Did Combeferre get over it fast?”

Éponine shrugs. “Enjolras ventured out of his room twenty minutes later because he needed coffee and he hadn’t thought to bring any in with us when we made our escape, and he discovered them making out on the sofa, so I’d say he got over it pretty fast.”

Just then, they hear Combeferre very nearly shout from the other end of the Musain, “You’re _not_ going to be Tesla, Joly, you’re just not! Learn to live with the disappointment!”

“This is taking longer to get over,” Marius says.

“Yup,” Éponine agrees.

Cosette just tugs her needle through the dress and the lace and sighs. “Like children,” she mutters.

Marius tries very hard not to wring his hands in distress, and he ultimately ends up sitting on them to avoid it. “There has to be something we can do,” he muses.

Cosette reaches out to pat his hand, sees that he’s sitting on both of them, and rolls her eyes. She leans in and kisses him on the cheek. “Cooler heads will eventually prevail.”

Marius bites his lip, clearly hating that there’s discord among their friends. “I sure hope so.”

+++++

**16 October**

It’s one of the rare evenings during this semester from hell in which neither one of them have a meeting or a make-up class or an off-campus class outing or a study group or a networking happy hour, and they’re spending it doing _homework_. But at least they’re spending it _together_ , so Éponine figures that things could be worse. Sure, she’s sitting on Enjolras’s couch at 8:30 on a Thursday evening reading _Crime and Punishment_ for her Russian Literature class while Enjolras revises a paper at the other end of the couch, but she _could_ be reading Dostoyevsky while alone in her sad little apartment that eternally smells of cabbages due to her neighbor across the hall, and she has learned over the years to take her victories as they come.

After about ten minutes, Enjolras frowns at his laptop screen and passes his computer over to her without a word. Reading over a paper on the effect of _Citizens United_ on deliberative democracy for Enjolras’s Contemporary Political Philosophy class isn’t exactly her first choice for what to do while taking a break from reading about Raskolnikov’s increasingly poor life decisions, but, again, she’ll take it.

(She resolutely does not think about how she would much rather tug on that one curl that keeps falling in front of Enjolras’s left eye until his frown gives way to a sly, yet still weirdly shy, smile. And she resolutely does not think about how Enjolras is the only person she knows who can pull off “sly, yet still weirdly shy.” Except she totally does think about both of those things, and she holds Enjolras’s laptop in front of her for at least two minutes before she has her wits about her enough to focus.)

She reads over it, momentarily tuning him out as he absently hums a snippet of a song, not enough for her to tell what it is, while he flips through his assorted papers spread over the floor, stacked on the armrest, and perched precariously on the back of the sofa. She takes her time, reveling in the fact that he trusts her judgment enough to seek out her opinions, not just on things relevant to Les Amis, but also on his coursework as well. It’s a recent development, and she has to fight back a grin.

Finally, she passes his laptop back to him. “Your second argument is stronger than your first, so I’d switch them. Also, take out the third sentence in the second paragraph on page 7. It’s far too inflammatory in tone relative to the rest.”

Enjolras’s frown grows deeper, and Éponine’s desire to rub her thumb on that one little spot on his brow _just so_ until the furrows on his forehead relax and disappear grows more intense. “Combeferre left it in when he looked it over earlier today.”

Éponine laughs and fiddles with her book. “Yeah, well, Combeferre is _not_ in his right mind right now.”

Enjolras considers this while he makes Éponine’s suggested changes. Once he saves the document (everyone in their friendship group has become a compulsive saver; they’ve all learned from Bossuet’s mistakes), he turns back to her, and she again sets _Crime and Punishment_ down in her lap. “Okay, because you said it,” he begins, “What in the world is going on with ‘Ferre and Joly?”

Éponine can’t help her chuckle at the sheer bafflement present in his voice and his expression. Enjolras has been so busy with other responsibilities this semester, he’s managed to miss every time Combeferre and Joly have fought another battle in their ongoing Tesla War, although he _has_ occasionally been there for the aftermath of cold silences and harsh glares. She assumed that Combeferre had told him about the kerfuffle, although apparently not. No wonder he sounds so confused.

“If they can stand to be together in the same place for more than thirty seconds,” he continues, “they start glaring daggers at each other and making these little snide remarks. It’s not disruptive, not yet, we can still get through meetings, and they manage to talk to each other at those without resorting to using Courfeyrac or Bossuet or Musichetta to talk _for_ them, but it’s about to become disruptive, and it’s not like either one of them.” He pauses and thinks for a moment. “Maybe Courfeyrac was onto something with his pod person theory.”

Éponine has an actual physical need to slap her palm to her forehead, and she indulges it. “Oh my god, not you, too. _Again_ with the pod people! Did you all watch that movie when R and I went to see that Van Gogh exhibit several weeks ago or something?”

Enjolras remains conspicuously silent, and she laughs again, amused, but also slightly put out that she missed observing Enjolras watch such a ridiculous movie. She wonders how many times he demanded that they stop the movie so he could rant about something, and she resolves to ask Jehan, who keeps all of these incidents logged for some as-yet-unknown purpose.

Enjolras smiles, as he always does when she’s so amused, the small, private smile reserved solely for her, softer and sweeter than the one he saves for Combeferre, his oldest friend, but she senses his impatience that she hasn’t yet answered his original question. “’Ferre and Joly are just having a disagreement over their Halloween costumes, they’re both being stubborn, and we would all intervene and force a resolution, except its kind of funny to watch Combeferre have his feathers ruffled for such a protracted period of time. It’s like seeing a unicorn, I think there’s a part of all of us that kind of wants to make it last, despite the disharmony it’s spreading.”

He snorts a laugh, and Éponine smiles reflexively back at him. “Disharmony. Sooooo,” he muses, dragging the word out, “ _not_ like a unicorn, then?”

She shrugs. “Sasquatch, maybe,” she allows. “Or the Loch Ness Monster.”

Enjolras idly taps a beat on his laptop, and she carefully avoids watching his long fingers as they compose a melody known only to him. “He’s my best friend and I love him, and I will deny this to my dying breath if you ever repeat this, but,” he drops his voice to a whisper, “it _is_ a little bit—just a little bit!—funny watching him all in a huff.”

Éponine smiles almost conspiratorially. “You’re terrible.”

He just winks at her, and she shoves him lightly on his shoulder.

They let their gazes linger for a while before Enjolras finally turns back to his paper and Éponine reluctantly returns to the dreary world of 19th Century St. Petersburg. They slowly shift closer on the sofa as they work, however, and by the time half an hour has passed, they’re next to each other, Enjolras a solid line of warmth pressed to her right side, a quiet, comfortable presence.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him reach the end of editing a section and drop in one final comment bubble, a note in all caps reminding himself to search for the last perfect source. He saves the document and closes his laptop, carefully stowing it on top of his Con Law book on the floor. He turns to face her, indecision writ large across his face, and she is instantly alert. Enjolras is many, _many_ things. Hesitant is hardly ever one of them.

He finally speaks, brow furrowed once more. “Ep. Serious question.”

She tosses _Crime and Punishment_ down to the floor, knowing that she has just abandoned it for the evening and caring not a bit, and brushes one golden-brown curl behind his ear. He attempts a smile and her unease grows. “Serious answer. Go.”

“I know that I _just said_ that it’s a little amusing watching ‘Ferre lose his cool, because it happens so very rarely, and over a Halloween costume?” Éponine wants to laugh at his incredulity, but she holds her tongue. “I guess we all have our random, unpredictable things that set us off and make us react disproportionately, but now that I think about it . . . .”

Enjolras trails off, uncharacteristically speaking without having a fully formed thought at the ready. He clearly isn’t finished, however, and Éponine waits, willing herself to be patient and lightly running the backs of her fingers over his cheek, unable to hide a smile when he leans into the caress almost imperceptibly. (A year ago, she wouldn’t have imagined that this could be possible, and now here she is, it’s amazing, life is, sometimes.)

He gathers his thoughts and clears his throat. “I know I haven’t been around that much lately, and so I’m wondering: is that starting to be a problem for the group? Is my schedule hurting us? Am I trying to do too much?”

Éponine sighs and snuggles in a little closer, space no longer exists between them, and that’s another thing that amazes her, how readily she seeks out and how intensely she enjoys and how readily he gives and how intensely _he_ enjoys touch, holding her close to him when they’re alone, resting his hand or his foot _just next_ to hers when they’re not.

(She never used to be that way, before, and there’s a small part of her that wants to analyze that, but this moment is not the time for that, it’ll have to wait, maybe for the next quiet moment when they’re still and silent, the only noise present the thump of his heart beneath her ear and her own rustling breaths as she tries to breathe in time with him.)

“I wouldn’t say it’s a problem,” she finally says, eyes fixed on the finger that Enjolras traces just above her knee, touch so light she can hardly feel it through her jeans.

“This thing with ‘Ferre and Joly,” she rolls her eyes skyward, “it’s ridiculous, but it’s kind of nice to see ‘Ferre _not_ acting like an adult for once, you know? I mean, it’s also unsettling as hell, because I’m pretty sure he’s been acting like a grown up since he was at least eight.” Enjolras, who has known him for that long, nods in confirmation, and she can see a small smile start to bloom on his face. “But I kind of enjoy seeing him like this, seeing him be ridiculous over something ridiculous. We’ll all step in before it does serious damage to their friendship, I’m sure, if it gets that far.”

Enjolras just nods again, and she tugs at him until he rests his head on her shoulder, breath ghosting over her collarbone where her oversized t-shirt has slipped to the side, leaving her skin bare. She doesn’t bother to hide her shiver.

(It’s been awhile since she’s hidden such reactions from him. It’s been awhile since he’s hidden his from her.)

“As for your other concern, well, you wouldn’t be Enjolras if you didn’t try to do as much as you could in order to do the most good that you could.” She feels the corner of his lips twitch up in a smile, and he places a series of careful kisses along the line of her collarbone. She lightly brushes her fingers through his hair, and she feels his eyelashes flutter closed in pleasure against her neck.

“We all know how busy you are,” she continues. “Senior thesis, because someone just _has_ to be in the honors program,” and she ignores how he pokes her in the side and murmurs _you are too_ into her skin, “your internship, applying to law school, plus Les Amis stuff? We’re all happy to pick up the slack in whatever way we can, and you’ve been great about delegating responsibilities to us all. Which kind of surprises me,” she adds teasingly, with a poke of her own to his side.

He doesn’t squirm away, but she can feel his stomach muscles tense, and she leaves her hand there, pushing one side of his undone waistcoat away and toying with a button on his shirt.

(One unexpected and unforeseen benefit to his judicial internship? He has to wear suits to court, three days a week. So there’s at least one guaranteed positive thing that will come from his upcoming years of legal study and eventual practice. She appreciates that he’ll be fighting for justice and the rule of law, of course she does, but she likes this aspect, too, alright, she has made her peace with this.)

“I don’t like delegating,” he huffs. “It’s out of necessity, there aren’t enough hours in the day otherwise. Scientists need to figure out that whole Time Turner thing already. Maybe we can get Feuilly on that.”

Éponine laughs. If Enjolras is making _Harry Potter_ references, he can’t be too genuinely distressed, and she makes yet another mental note to thank Grantaire for harassing Enjolras about the series so much that he finally gave in and read it himself so he could properly respond to R’s arguments instead of relying on Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Marius, who knows more about the series than all the rest of them combined.

“I think the Time Turner would be more of a physics thing than engineering, but I’m sure Feuilly would give it a go regardless, _he_ could certainly use it too, after all. But, to the point, the delegation is working fine. Their current differences aside, ‘Ferre and Joly have both been invaluable with the get-out-the-vote campaign, and everyone has really stepped up. We’re doing fine. This time of October is always so hectic, things should settle down a little bit by the end of the month, and we can all have fun at the party.”

Enjolras hums in response. “So, speaking of that, who am I going to be at this party?”

Éponine raises an eyebrow and decides to tease him a little. “Why are you asking _me_ who _you_ are going to be?”

Enjolras straightens up from leaning against her and slides his hand in between her back and the sofa, pulling her to him. “Because you’re excellent at taking charge of these kinds of things, and whatever you decide, even if it’s totally outrageous, you will absolutely make it worth my while.”

He nips gently at her neck and she shivers. “I am good at that, aren’t I?” she manages, and she slides over so that she’s straddling him, forehead resting against his. “Going to place any restrictions on me this year?” She leans forward so that there’s a hair’s breadth of space between their lips.

“Just please tell me that I can wear more clothes this year.”

Éponine giggles into their kiss, and somewhere along the way in this relationship, she has become a person who giggles, and she has become a person who doesn’t _mind_ that she giggles, because he always looks so delighted when she does, like the sun has come out and there truly are equal rights for all and the entire Republican Party has vanished into the ether. “Don’t worry. You’ll like it. _I’ll_ like it. And I’ll enjoy getting you out of it at the end of the party.”

“Already worth it,” he whispers as he presses her even closer to him.

+++++

**20 October**

It’s just after half-past six in the morning when Combeferre shuts the front door to the apartment that he shares with Enjolras as quietly as he can. He knows Enjolras is already awake, having been drawn out of his bedroom by the siren song of the pot of coffee Combeferre had brewed an hour before, but he’s not sure if Éponine is, if she’s even there, and he knows for a fact Courfeyrac is not, currently snuggled up in Combeferre’s duvet as he is, still fast asleep, warm, and inviting.

He hefts his bag higher up on his shoulder and turns to lock the door behind him, _one can never be too careful_ he hears in the back of his mind in his mother’s voice, and then he sees it: a colorful piece of paper taped to the door just under the peephole. He pushes his glasses up his nose and peers at it. _GIVE IN,_ it reads in Joly’s nigh-on-illegible handwriting, already perfect for a doctor. There’s also a picture of Tesla with the caption _ME_ and a picture of Edison with the caption _YOU_.

It takes every single ounce of restraint and self-possession that Combeferre possesses, an amount that is _considerable_ , not to yank on his hair and shriek in frustration. He silently fumes while he debates whether to ignore it and continue on his day as though he can’t be bothered to notice such missives or to vent his annoyance and aggravation at a captive audience. His demons shout down his better angels, and he rips the paper from the door and storms back inside, taking less care this time with the amount of noise that he makes, and into his bedroom.

Courfeyrac rouses when Combeferre shuts the door with a loud _snick_ , and he blinks dazedly up at Combeferre from within his nest of blankets and covers and smiles gently, utterly failing to notice Combeferre’s thunderous expression. “You’re back,” he hums.

Combeferre, however, is entirely immune to the charms of his sleepy and rumpled boyfriend, and he hurls the paper at Courfeyrac with as much ferocity as he can muster. “This is partially _your_ fault, don’t think I’ve forgotten that.”

Courfeyrac’s confusion is evident, and he snakes a hand out from under a quilt and fumbles for the paper, squinting to read it as the first pre-dawn rays of light filter their way through the blinds and into the room. He sighs. “How.”

Combeferre huffs in impatience. “ _You’re_ the one who insisted on a science theme for this party!”

“But you two would have gone as scientists anyway. It’s what you _do._ ”

“Yes, but now science is the _theme_ , which means we have to be _perfect_. I could maybe let it slide, otherwise.” An expression of uncertainty crosses Combeferre’s face at his own words, and Courfeyrac just looks at him, clearly doubting that his boyfriend would ever settle for _not_ striving for perfection. “Okay, maybe not,” he concedes, “But you successfully secured this theme, and you did it for _me_ , and I’ve always wanted to be Tesla for Halloween, and I’d make a good one, Courfeyrac, I really would . . . .”

He trails off as Courfeyrac hooks his fingers in the bottom of Combeferre’s sweater and tugs him back onto the bed over Combeferre’s half-hearted protests. “I bet you’d make the _sexiest_ Tesla,” Courfeyrac purrs, now wide awake and clearly determined to make the most of the fact that he’s up long before any self-respecting college student should be.

Despite himself, Combeferre feels his anger and his irritation start to retreat back to the little corner of his brain that has been worked up into a tizzy ever since that very first disagreement with Joly, gone almost as quickly as it had come over him, and he leans closer and runs his fingers through the sleep-mussed curls at Courfeyrac’s temple. “He’s not supposed to be sexy.”

Courfeyrac just laughs. “Well, then you’re going to have to settle for being an imperfect Tesla, because you dressed in a late 1800’s/early 1900’s suit? Hate to break it to you, darling, but that’s going to be sexy. Now come here,” he murmurs and tugs on the front of Combeferre’s sweater, closing the distance between them. “Take your shoes off and get back in bed,” he pleads as he kisses his way up Combeferre’s neck.

Combeferre, for his part, can’t hold back a moan, and he squirms slightly when Courfeyrac’s hand makes its way under his sweater and button-down to brush bare skin. “8:00 class, Courfeyrac, I’m going to be late.”

Courfeyrac looks over at the clock on the bedside table, which reads 6:45. “I’m making it my personal goal this morning to _ensure_ that you’re late, love.”

*

The clock reads 8:05 when Courfeyrac finally flops over on his back next to Combeferre, who’s lying there languidly, all his ever-present tension for once completely drained from his body, an almost dreamy smile upon his face, and Courfeyrac cranes his neck to see the time. He grins lazily and with great satisfaction. “Well, you’re officially late, you slacker.”

Combeferre, pleasantly exhausted, manages to scrape together enough energy and situational awareness to swivel his head on the shared pillow to glare at Courfeyrac. “Really now. This is what you’re going to say to me?”

Courfeyrac just cheekily grins and shifts back on top of Combeferre, tracing a swirl of ink on his right shoulder first with his finger, then with his tongue. He can hear Enjolras and/or Éponine clattering around in the kitchen, making preparations to leave soon for a 9:15 class. He wonders which one of them it is, or if they’re both still present. Neither of them had been there when he and Combeferre had retired to Combeferre’s bedroom the night before. The smell of fresh coffee finally permeates his awareness, and he concludes definitively, by process of elimination, that Éponine must have stayed over and refreshed the pot that Combeferre would have made when he woke up three hours before. Enjolras, after all, has never learned how to work the machine, and he relies on the kindness of his friends to obtain his first coffee fix of the day.

He cards his fingers through Combeferre’s sandy hair, occasionally pausing to scratch his scalp, immensely gratified when Combeferre lets out tiny little whimpers and fidgets, usual feline grace abandoned in the face of pleasure. He wants to pursue this line of inquiry further, as that always leads to fun and exciting places, and it’s so rare for him to be able to share a lazy weekday morning with Combeferre, Champion of the 8:00 Class, but if Enjolras and Éponine are getting ready to leave soon, he knows that he needs to hop in the shower and get ready for his own 9:15 class.

Combeferre’s fingers idly trace nonsense patterns on his hip, and the longer they laze about, the patterns become increasingly less idle and more purposeful, and he starts to press down harder and occasionally scrape his nails just slightly, and Courfeyrac knows that, unfortunately, _so unfortunately_ , he needs to do _something_ to shut this down or else they’ll never get to class, and he’s pretty sure his French History professor is going to give them a pop quiz, and Combeferre will never forgive himself if he skips _two_ classes in one day, him skipping _one_ is already a minor miracle, so that’s the only explanation he can muster for why he says, quietly, almost inaudibly, “You could just let him be Tesla. It’s not like you to be so intractable.”

That breaks the indolent mood as effectively as if he had taken up a sledgehammer and started smashing all of Combeferre’s belongings. His words (regrettably) have the (not really) desired effect as Combeferre stiffens and pulls away. His expression isn’t quite one of betrayal, although it edges in that direction and is about as close to such a look as Combeferre ever gets, and Courfeyrac knows that he can’t quite hide his wince in response.

“I am normally very much in favor of compromise, as you well know,” Combeferre begins, and his voice is perfectly neutral and perfectly precise, and somehow, in this moment, that is a thousand times worse than if he had explicitly sounded hurt because he had been so relaxed not ten seconds before and now he’s tense and putting all his effort into trying to sound at ease and hiding how he actually feels, and this time Courfeyrac doesn’t bother to mask his wince. “But this is a matter of scientific integrity. I will be _in hell_ before I dress up as Thomas Edison.”

Combeferre abruptly slides out from under Courfeyrac and off the bed, and he gathers his clothes and his glasses and stalks into the en suite. Courfeyrac lets his head fall back against the pillow with a thump and sighs.

+++++

**21 October**

Musichetta wanders into the bedroom she shares with Joly and Bossuet, intending to change clothes after dressing up for a presentation in her Sociology of Gender Roles class, and abruptly stops short. Due to Joly’s tendencies towards obsessive-compulsiveness and Bossuet’s need to have a clear walking space lest he trip over a misplaced item and break something (or himself), they generally have a spotlessly clean apartment. Now, however, it looks as though a tornado has ripped through their bedroom.

There’s a recognizable Bossuet-shaped lump resting on top of the bed, but he is almost completely obscured by heaps and heaps of period clothing. Late 1800s/early 1900s period clothing, to be exact, and she watches, astonished, as Joly, clearly laboring under the belief that he will in fact be dressing as Tesla for the Halloween party, Combeferre be damned, keeps making trips between the bed and the closet, placing _even more_ pieces of clothing on the bed.

There are at least two dressy overcoats near Bossuet’s head, along with several regular suit coats (at least one of which with tails) draped over his chest. They’re still ten days out from Halloween, and while the air has been crisp but manageable over the last few days, it could yet turn cold, so the presence of the overcoats makes sense. Joly has piled a veritable mountain of starchy white dress shirts along Bossuet’s right side, some of which have spilled over onto Bossuet to join the suit coats. There’s a stack of suit trousers sitting next to and in between Bossuet’s legs, appropriately enough, and Musichetta can see a mound of cravats, at least three of which she knows belong to Jehan (she doesn’t know why she knows this, or why Jehan has at least three cravats, although she supposes that _Jehan being Jehan_ is an appropriate and accurate answer to that query), resting on his ankles. Joly has dumped almost every pair of dress shoes that he or Bossuet owns at the foot of the bed, and when Joly reappears, he tosses a red brocaded waistcoat in the general direction of the bed, where it lands on Bossuet’s right foot.

“Is there a spatial anomaly in our closet? How have you managed to pull all of _this_ from _that_ space?”

“Musichetta!” Bossuet hails her from the bed, and she smiles in response to the broad grin on his face. She has somehow managed to luck upon the two most persistently cheerful men she’s ever met in her life, even if Joly’s usual good humor has been somewhat diminished of late. “It’s entirely possible that our closet has been invaded by an evil alien hell-bent on transforming all ‘regular’ clothes into clothing circa the turn of the twentieth century. I think it longs for that simpler, more peaceful time.”

“Sure,” she replies, gingerly taking a set on the bed next to his left leg. “Sounds legit.”

“Maybe it’s not restricted to turn of the twentieth century. Next time you need to look as though you belong in a Jane Austen novel, why don’t you check our closet before you go scouring the Internet or the consignment stores? Maybe we can make this malevolent alien helpful against its will. It never hurts to try, you know.”

She chuckles. “Yeah, I’ll be sure to do that.”

Bossuet unearths a hand from underneath the heavy coats and reaches out to her. She tangles her fingers in his and leans over to place a kiss on the back of his hand.

“Joly is trying to put together the perfect Tesla outfit,” he whispers.

“Has that been settled then?” she whispers back.

Bossuet just purses his lips and gives a short, sharp shake of his head. She nods in understanding.

Joly walks back out into the bedroom and sets a blue-and-green brocaded waistcoat down on top of the red brocaded waistcoat. He blows a kiss in her general direction before heading back into the depths of their closet.

Musichetta and Bossuet share a look, his eyes clearly saying, _It’s gotta be you; I’m not doing it_. She sighs and raises her voice. “Joly, I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

She hears him grunt something unintelligible from inside the closet, and she can see the vague silhouette of him yanking something from a drawer. He reappears with a yellow brocaded waistcoat, and Musichetta does not bother to try to stop her right eyebrow from nearly hitting her hairline.

“Yes, ma’am?” He asks genially as he surveys his boyfriend and girlfriend amongst his clothing options.

Musichetta attempts to keep her tone light-hearted and non-confrontational. Light-hearted and non-confrontational, that is going to be the key to success here. “Bossuet and I, we have a theme for this Halloween party, and you, sir, are ruining it. _Pop Culture Scientists_ , Joly, you’re leaving us hanging here and we do not appreciate it.”

Joly’s face doesn’t quite turn to stone, but she clearly was neither light-hearted nor non-confrontational enough, as he returns to the closet without saying a word. She gives into the urge to facepalm and gestures for Bossuet to try his hand.

Which he does, with predictably disastrous results. “If Joly doesn’t go as Tesla, he’ll have to go as Edison,” is his opening salvo, and at Joly’s screeched _Over my dead body!_ from inside the closet, Musichetta gives him an incredulous look, as if there is literally no conceivable reason for why he would choose to begin his argument in such a manner.

“I’m sorry, Musichetta!” Bossuet continues, sincerely contrite, and the look of genuine distress on his face is enough to stay her hand from knocking the top hat resting at the head of their bed over onto his face. “It’s just that Joly’s scientist costume contest with Combeferre dates back to our first year, before we even met you, and therefore that takes precedence over any little mini-theme that we concoct. It’s only fair. Combeferre has the Halloween costume equivalent of calling shotgun.”

Musichetta snorts. “Nothing about this situation is fair,” she mutters so that only Bossuet can hear her. He just shrugs (as well as he can while covered by clothing, at any rate) and mouths _I don’t disagree_.

“Also, has everyone forgotten that they _didn’t go as rivals_ last year? Has everyone else experienced some bizarre selective memory loss? I do not understand this,” she hisses.

“That appears to be some kind of one-off exception, as far as I can tell. I don’t understand it either. The Great Halloween Rival Scientist Costume Contest has rules and regulations that we mere mortals cannot comprehend,” Bossuet replies.

She can hear Joly still shoving aside hanger after hanger in the closet, and part of her is amazed and wants to marvel at the prospect that there could possibly be _more_ pieces of clothing relevant to a Tesla costume inside, but most of her is just annoyed, and she finally decides to just say it, as bluntly as possible. “I just don’t see what the big deal is about letting Combeferre be Tesla and then you could be someone else. You wouldn’t have to be Edison.”

Joly walks out of the closet, fire in his eyes and a purple brocaded waistcoat in his hands. He flings it at the bed and places his hands on his hips. “Et tu, Musichetta?” He demands, and she doesn’t bother hiding her eye-roll from him. “I’m entrenched in this position now. It’s the principle of the thing.”

She barks a laugh. “Which is?”

He glares at her, eyes narrowing, before he turns on his heel and tosses a _never you mind_ over his shoulder.

Musichetta flops over onto the pile of clothing next to Bossuet, her own suit be damned, and groans into his chest. He bestows a commiserating pat on the top of her head and brushes her dark hair that has spilled over his shoulder and neck to the side.

Before she can get comfortable, a thought occurs to her and she lifts her head, peering down at Bossuet’s feet. “Bossuet,” she whispers in an undertone, “When did he acquire so many brocaded waistcoats? How did he acquire so many brocaded waistcoats? Most importantly, _why_ did he acquire so many brocaded waistcoats?”

“I’ve long since stopped asking these questions,” Bossuet says with a long-suffering sigh.

+++++

**23 October**

After a positively mind-numbing class on modernism that somehow managed to run ten minutes long, thus resulting in one hundred and twenty-five minutes of sheer hell on earth, Grantaire figures that he could use a little liveliness to spice up his day.

He gets his wish as he takes the last remaining seat, one between Éponine and Courfeyrac, at the table they’ve commandeered in the campus dining hall as part of their Thursday Lunch routine, when all of them save Cosette, Musichetta, and Enjolras, who all have classes over the lunch hour, eat together. It’s usually a time of much merriment. Today, however, by the time he belatedly arrives, Combeferre and Joly are already arguing, _still_ arguing, _forever arguing_ , and he inwardly sighs to himself as he sits and takes the first bite of his slice of pizza. He has to admit, although this whole situation was funny for a while, by this point, the amusement has run its course.

Even ‘Ferre and Joly look weary of the argument today, as if the only reason they’re still disputing this issue is because they’ve invested so much of their time and energy into defending their positions, they can’t possibly back out now. What they need now, Grantaire knows, is a logical way for them both to be Tesla. There has to be _something_. Combeferre and Courfeyrac managed to work out a way for both of them to be Dr. Frank-N-Furter last year, they’re all intelligent people, they can figure out a way to have two Teslas, he _knows_ this is a thing that is possible.

He tunes into the argument in time to hear Combeferre practically hiss, “I am going to be Tesla. I _am._ I am _not_ backing down over this. _Not at all._ ”

Joly opens his mouth to deliver a retort, but before he can get a word out, Bahorel asks Combeferre, “Is this some childhood thing or something? Did your mother not let you be Tesla one year? There has to be some explanation for this intensity, ‘Ferre.”

To Grantaire’s surprise, and to the surprise of everyone except Courfeyrac, apparently, Combeferre sniffs and looks away. He tries to do so derisively, but he can’t quite hide a look of hurt in his eyes, and Bahorel’s eyebrows shoot up. “Whoa, dude, I didn’t—”

“For my eighth birthday,” Combeferre begins, “I received a book about scientists. It was actually a gift from Enjolras,” he adds, fondly. “Everyone in our class who attended the party made fun of him and me for it, but I thought it was a fantastic gift, because it was, and I read it over and over and over again.”

Everyone’s eyes are fixed on him, including Joly’s, Grantaire notices.

“One of the scientists in that book was Tesla, and he was my favorite. I read the entry on him more than any other. I had it memorized within three days. Because my birthday is in March, I had to wait seven months until the next Halloween. But finally, October rolled around and my mother asked me what I wanted to be for Halloween. I ran upstairs and got my book and opened it up to the Tesla section, and she looked at me and said, ‘No one will understand it, darling,’ and then she made me be Superman instead. _Superman!_ She could have at least let me be Bruce Wayne!”

“Or Reed Richards,” Courfeyrac interjects.

“Or Tony Stark,” Bossuet pipes up, to a death glare from Joly. “Sorry, Joly,” he whispers.

“Or Bruce Banner,” Courfeyrac adds, again.

“But no,” Combeferre picks up the thread once more, clearing his throat, “Superman. And then Superman again the next year. And then a clown.” Everyone shudders at that, Joly again included, although Grantaire sees him try valiantly not to give in. _Everyone_ gives in to clown fear. “And then an astronaut, which, okay, that was fun, but it wasn’t Tesla. And then she decided that because I was in junior high at that point, I was too old for Halloween. But I am a grown man now, her tyranny has ended, and I’m going to be Nikola Tesla for this Halloween party, like I’ve wanted to be for over a fucking decade!”

The passion in Combeferre’s voice is palpable, and Grantaire personally wants to stand up and applaud him. He admires his dedication to Tesla, and he feels Combeferre’s pain with regard to parents who just didn’t understand their child’s Halloween desires. Grantaire himself had always wanted to be Van Gogh, but his parents never let him, because they never have and never will, or so it seems, understand his love for art, and he had to wait until his freshman year before he could realize that dream. And what a dream it had been. That had been a great costume.

(His parents, like Combeferre’s, apparently, also made him dress up as a clown one year, which _what the hell_ , why are their parents so hell-bent on dressing their sons up as things that are fucking terrifying? He gets that it’s Halloween and all, and that’s part of the fun, but there’s fun-and-games scary, and then there’s cruel-and-unusual-punishment scary, and clowns _definitely_ fall in the latter category)

Joly, however, is unmoved. “Well, okay, I appreciate your childhood trauma and everything, but Tesla has been my favorite scientist for years, he’s an inspiration, goddamn it, and I have my costume all put together already, and you will have to pry it from my _cold, dead hands_ , Combeferre!”

Joly is breathing hard, and Combeferre looks like he’s about to jump over the table and start a brawl right there in the dining hall because he’s just _so frustrated_ , and no one else knows what to say aside from Bahorel’s muttered _damn_.

Joly’s words, though. Something about Tesla and _cold dead hands_ triggers the gears in Grantaire’s brain, and they start churning, hopefully towards resolution. He feels like he’s having a drawn-out _Eureka_ moment as pieces begin slotting into place. “About that . . . .” he muses.

Two places over from him, Feuilly puts his veggie burger down and looks mildly alarmed. “Uh, I think _murder_ is an extreme solution to this problem.” He tries to be subtle about how he shies away from Éponine when she just raises an eyebrow at his statement. He fails.

Grantaire waves his hands wildly. “No no no no no. Haven’t any of you seen _The Prestige_? Wasn’t the device that what’s-his-name, I don’t remember, one of the magicians, was using to duplicate himself, wasn’t that a Tesla machine?”

Bossuet perks up. “Not quite, but Tesla is a character in that movie.”

“Yeah, I know!” Grantaire exclaims. “David Bowie!”

“Always with the David Bowie,” Éponine mutters. Grantaire steals a handful of her French fries in retaliation. He’s had quite enough of her teasing him for his Bowie obsession over the years.

“ _Of course_ with the David Bowie,” he replies. “So if it wasn’t a Tesla machine, what was his involvement, Bossuet? I don’t remember exactly.”

“The magician you were referring to, Angier, he asked Tesla for help in trying to figure out the machine that his rival magician was using. He thought it could be a teleportation thing, which would be awesome, but instead, he and Tesla discovered that it made a duplicate of whatever was placed inside of it.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah! That’s it!” Grantaire remembers now. “And so he started using it in his act, and when he would get in it, he’d fall through a trap door into a tank of water, where he’d drown, and the machine would create a duplicate who would appear on stage—“

“And the crowds went wild!” Bossuet finished with glee.

Grantaire gives him a broad smile. Between Bossuet and Bahorel, no question about a movie ever goes unanswered. “So there we go,” he says to the table at large. Understanding has dawned on every face, although Joly and Combeferre both look like they’re trying to find some way to avoid adopting this solution. “You both go as Tesla, so that covers the ‘real scientist’ angle, and then if someone asks why there are _two_ of you, you can say that you took a trip through the—what was it actually called, Bossuet?”

“Angier called his act _The Real Transported Man_.”

“Awesome. So you could say that you took a trip through the _Transported Man_ machine from _The Prestige_ , covering the ‘pop culture’ angle, and voila! _Two Teslas!_ ”

The table breaks out into applause, and Grantaire stands up to sketch a bow, motioning for Bossuet to do the same. (Which he does, knocking over his chair in the process.)

“Okay, but you just said the magician died in the process of this trick. I am _not_ going to be dead Tesla or _duplicate_ Tesla or what-have-you!” Joly protests.

Combeferre takes a deep breath, and Grantaire can _see_ him mentally counting to ten to avoid completely losing his shit in the middle of the dining hall.

Fortunately, before they can descend into _another_ argument, Jehan slams his Medieval Literature book down onto the table and says, loudly, drawing the attention of a few nearby tables (which is not an unusual occurrence in itself in this dining hall, which is why they prefer the Musain, where the other regulars have seemingly adopted an unwritten rule that they ignore the antics of Les Amis de l’ABC, but it _is_ unusual for _Jehan_ to be the cause of other people’s stares), “For the sake of science, you two!”

Everyone’s eyes snap over to Jehan. “We have a quorum of members present. I hereby call this emergency meeting of Les Amis de l’ABC to order.”

Nobody says a word in opposition.

“R and Bossuet have presented us with a solution to this ongoing problem,” Jehan continues, exasperation evident. “It is logical. It makes sense. It allows _both_ of you to go as Tesla, and it requires _neither_ of you to be Edison. You can put the Great Halloween Rival Scientist Costume Contest on hold until 2015. I know you’re both passionate about Tesla, but this rivalry between two dead scientists is now tearing apart a friendship more than a hundred years later, which is _utterly ludicrous_.”

Jehan takes a breath and continues quietly, urgently. “Tesla wouldn’t want this, you guys. He would _not_ approve.”

He stares both Joly and Combeferre down before continuing, “I, Jean Prouvaire, move that R and Bossuet’s plan for _both_ Combeferre and Joly to dress as Nikola Tesla for the Halloween party be adopted and carried out. Second?”

“Seconded!” Courfeyrac gets it out first, but Grantaire instantly follows him, as do Bossuet, Éponine, Bahorel, Feuilly, and Marius.

“All in favor?” All of those who seconded the motion, plus Jehan, say _aye_.

“All opposed?” Both Joly and Combeferre clearly want to object, but Bossuet and Courfeyrac just _look_ at them, and Grantaire can see Courf clamp his hand down on Combeferre’s thigh in warning. They stay silent.

“All abstaining?” Jehan finally asks. Combeferre and Joly raise their hands.

“Eight in favor, none opposed, two abstaining, motion carries.” Jehan levels his very best menacing glare on both of them. It is surprisingly effective, especially as it comes from the most mild-mannered out of all of them. Grantaire notices that Éponine looks particularly impressed.

“Good,” Jehan states, leaving no room for argument. “You’re _both_ going to be Tesla. And you’re going to fucking _like it_ , too.”

+++++

**31 October**

“I do prefer this costume to last year’s,” Enjolras comments mildly as he waits for Éponine to put the final pin in her hair so she can then tie his bow tie.

“Do you now?” She chuckles, and it is warm and low, and it sends a shot of heat sparking and fizzing and dancing through his veins, and, okay, so he strongly disliked that costume, alright, but he cannot deny that it brought them together, that, without that impetus, they might still be circling around each other, cold and aloof and alone, and he wouldn’t return to _that_ state for anything, so he can admit to himself that maybe, _just maybe_ ,he didn’t _hate_ it.

“Let’s be honest here. Tiny, tight gold shorts with _nothing else_ in late October when it was in the 40s at night? That was not pleasant.”

“I reject this revisionist history. I let you wear your pea coat!” Éponine protests as she loops his tie around his neck, standing far closer than she really needs to in order to accomplish such a task. He can’t say that he minds all that much. “The red and the gold looked good together. And all that pale skin? Mmmmmmm, that was one of my better decisions.”

She detours from knotting his tie to walk her fingers down his chest. Her eyes flick up to his and a flirty grin settles on her face, and if Enjolras now counts _Rocky Horror Picture Show_ as one of his favorite movies, well, can anyone really blame him?

He rests his hands on her hips, stroking his thumbs over the silk of her dress, delighting in her tiny shiver as she straightens his tie. “Glad I could have been of service,” he says dryly.

She brushes off his shoulders, which quickly turns into more of a caress than a legitimate attempt to remove any lingering lint or hairs. “I find it interesting,” she states with a smirk, “that you protest the temperature of that night and not the blatant objectification that you underwent from over half of the people there.”

“The blatant objectification? Like what you, and Cosette, and Musichetta will undoubtedly undergo tonight, regardless of what you’re wearing and who you’re dressed as, simply because you happen to be female and in the presence of men?”

Enjolras remembers the stares that he had received, which, okay, fine, he’s a physically fit young man and he had been wearing nothing but a tiny pair of shorts and a pea coat, people were definitely going to stare, he didn’t really like it then, and he still doesn’t particularly like it now, but he has long since made something approaching peace with it. Of course, he _also_ remembers the stares that girls had received, the eyes that had followed them all night long, the gawkers who had been very obviously mentally undressing them, the one kid from Enjolras’s American Presidency class who had gotten a bit too handsy with Éponine when she went to get a drink and who had ended up curled on the ground in pain after a well-warranted application of her knee to his groin, and suddenly he is angry all over again, and he feels his breathing start to quicken and his jaw clench, and he just wants to _yell_ and _rage_ , and—

“Enjolras!” He registers Éponine shouting his name, placing her hand gently on his cheek, a counterpoint that tempers the harshness of her tone, derailing him before he can get fully worked up. “It’s alright,” she soothes.

He won’t be calmed just yet, however. “Éponine,” he says, deadly serious, “if I hear one person, _one person_ , make some crack or fire off some criticism over why didn’t you _make your costume sexy_ , or something ignorant and asinine like that, as if we can’t just appreciate women like Ada Lovelace for the amazing people and amazing minds that they are without trying to _make them sexy_ for the male gaze, I am going to find you, if you’re not there with me, and you’re going to punch them in the face, if you so please, and then _I’m_ going to punch them in the face.”

Éponine stares at him for a moment and then bursts out laughing. She laughs so hard, and for so long, that she clings to his shoulders to keep herself upright, and she rests her forehead on the dip between his collarbones. He’s reasonably sure she’s not laughing _at_ him, so he stays quiet (which he will admit, in the privacy of his own thoughts, is a Herculean feat) and keeps her anchored with a hand on her back.

When she finally raises her head, and her laughter dwindles to chortles and then on to slightly breathless giggles, there are tears in her eyes from her mirth, and he brushes them away with his fingertips, a delicate touch that she’ll never admit to wanting, but that he knows she sometimes secretly craves.

“Enjolras, I l—” She cuts herself off, and even _he_ knows what she almost let herself say, and he has a sudden desperate _need_ to hear her voice saying those words to him, and this visceral desire surprises him with its ferocity and the suddenness with which it has come over him, but it is also no surprise at all, because it is _her_ and _him_ and, more importantly, _them_ , and, honestly, they’ve been heading in this direction for a little while now. He knows, however, the situations in which she allows herself to be pushed, and this is not one of them, and so he again holds his tongue as she gathers her thoughts and meets his eyes and says instead, “Thank you. I appreciate that kind offer.”

He very much wants to respond to what she didn’t say, to press her to him and murmur _I love you too_ into her ear, to say _forget this party_ and spin her around and around until they’re dizzy with laughter and each other. He says instead, “Anytime,” and he kisses the back of her hand.

He can tell that she knows that _he_ knows what she almost said, what she wanted to say, what he nearly said anyway, and her smile wavers slightly before solidifying into a wicked smirk. She traces a finger down one of his suspenders before reaching for his blazer. “Come on, then. Let’s go celebrate some science.”

*

They arrive on the campus esplanade to see strings of hundreds of orange and white and yellow lights draped through the lower branches of the trees and a giant painted banner welcoming them to the party.

“‘Blinded Me With Science,’” Enjolras reads. He tries to keep his tone free from judgment, he really does, because he is pretty sure that Courfeyrac was instrumental in securing this particular theme for the party, but apparently he doesn’t quite succeed if the way Éponine snickers beside him is any indication.

“Looks like Courf never did manage to get that theme name changed.”

Not ten seconds after she says this, Courfeyrac steps out of the shadows as if summoned. He’s wearing a top hat and a suit that would not be out of place at a ball that Éponine-as-Ada might be invited to attend, and he’s carrying, for _some_ reason, an ancient-looking telephone. He beams at Éponine before bowing low and placing a careful kiss on her gloved knuckles. He turns to Enjolras, considers his costume, and proceeds to laugh hysterically.

His loud and bright laughter draw the attention of the rest of their friends, who slowly drift over to stand around them.

Enjolras, displaying _remarkable_ tolerance, if you ask him, simply asks, “Are you done?”

Courfeyrac shakes his head and continues laughing, and Enjolras rolls his eyes for the first of what is likely to be _many, many_ times this evening.

Grantaire strolls over and stretches out his hand to Éponine. “Lady Lovelace,” he intones, before swirling her around in an impromptu waltz.

“ _Countess_ , actually,” she stage whispers to him, and they both chuckle as Enjolras twitches at the reminder that Éponine is currently dressed as a member of the British nobility. Sometimes his friends are the _worst_.

“Countess, of course,” Grantaire corrects himself. He comes to a halt and Éponine keeps holding his hand and retakes Enjolras’s, swinging both of her hands, joined by theirs, by her sides, and Enjolras catches Grantaire’s eye as he smiles fondly at her and _them_ , and sometimes his friends are the _best_. Grantaire turns his attention to Enjolras. “Bill Nye the Science Guy?” he asks.

Courfeyrac is still laughing over to the side, but by now Combeferre has joined him, and he pokes Courfeyrac in the side and hisses _don’t be rude_. It’s only marginally effective.

Enjolras clears his throat, and he sees Éponine try, and fail, to hide a smile. “Let me tell you something about Bill Nye the Science Guy. One, it is impossible to grow up with _that_ one,” he says, pointing to Combeferre, “and _not_ develop a fierce love of the man. Two, he has done much in the way of educating young people in the sciences and that is important. And three, he is a passionate believer in seeking _truth_ , and _that_ is important no matter _what_ the discipline.”

Grantaire raises the hand not still holding Éponine’s in a defensive gesture. “Hey, no judgment here. Éponine clearly did well in picking that costume for you. Bill Nye is a badass. As is _my_ inspiration.” He gives a bit of a flourish and a small bow.

Enjolras looks him over. Grantaire has attempted to straighten his curly hair, with varying degrees of success depending on the section of hair. (Éponine had considered doing the same with Enjolras’s, but she quickly gave up on that endeavor and declared, much to Enjolras’s profound satisfaction, that he was just going to have to be a curly-headed Bill Nye the Science Guy.) He’s wearing an actual pair of slacks for once, instead of just a ripped pair of skinny jeans, a red turtleneck (possibly borrowed from Jehan), and a tweed blazer with elbow patches (almost certainly borrowed from Jehan).

Éponine stands up on her tiptoes and whispers _Carl Sagan_ into his ear. _Now_ he sees it. Grantaire has done well.

He also has colorfully decorated index cards affixed to various parts of his body, including one over his heart, and others on his arms, stomach, and back. When Enjolras looks closer, he sees that they all have different elements written on them, with their symbols, basic facts, and intricate drawings of their atomic structure. They’re beautiful, far more detailed than a simple prop for a Halloween costume should warrant, but he’s come to expect no less from Grantaire, who doesn’t take many things seriously, but the things he does, _he does_.

He studies the one for _Carbon_. He quirks an eyebrow at Grantaire. “What’s with the random elements?”

Grantaire smiles almost as broadly as Enjolras has ever seen, absolutely pleased with himself. “Elements present in the body. Elements present in the universe. We are star stuff, Enjolras.”

 _We are indeed_ , he thinks. Enjolras laughs. “Well done.”

He turns to Courfeyrac, who has finally finished laughing, with an unimpressed expression on his face. “And who are _you_ supposed to be? Why are you carrying a phone that looks like it may actually be a hundred years old?”

Courfeyrac says nothing, but he rummages in the inner pocket of his suit jacket and hands both Enjolras and Éponine a business card. They exchange dubious glances. The business cards have two lines on them. The first says _Alexander Graham Bell_. The second, slightly smaller, line says _Call me, maybe_.

Enjolras drops the hand holding the business card down to his side, and he stares at Courfeyrac, who somehow looks even more insufferably pleased with himself than Grantaire did, with a completely flat expression. Sometimes, he can’t believe that he’s friends with these people, he really can’t.

Éponine snorts. “Did you dress as Alexander Graham Bell just so you could make a dumb ‘Call Me, Maybe’ joke?” She pauses, peering at Courfeyrac, and then says, with more urgency, “Did you push this theme on the student government just so you could make a dumb ‘Call Me, Maybe’ joke?”

Courfeyrac just shrugs, completely unconcerned. “Maybe I did. You’ll never prove anything. Those meeting records are sealed!”

Enjolras, having requested minutes from student government meetings before, knows for a fact that they are not, but he’s not particularly interested in pressing that point with Courfeyrac. “What did ‘Ferre think of this?” he asks instead.

“He rolled his eyes. But then I heard him humming the song as he was getting dressed earlier, so victory is mine!”

That sounds about right to Enjolras. Combeferre has always had almost super-human tolerance for Courfeyrac’s antics.

“Okay, okay, enough with you, Courfeyrac,” Cosette says, bumping Courfeyrac out of the way with her hip. “Now the rest of us. Enjolras, care to guess?”

Cosette and Marius are both in all black, turn-of-the-century-style formal clothes, but they both have patches, similar in design to Grantaire’s index cards, sewn on above their hearts. The patch reads _Cm_ , with a smaller _Curium_ underneath and a radioactive symbol.

He glances at Éponine, but she doesn’t seem inclined to give him any assistance for this one. He takes a stab in the dark and guesses the only married scientists he knows. “The Curies?”

Cosette kisses his cheek. “Got it in one, Chief.”

Jehan steps forward next, and he’s _also_ in formal wear (and Enjolras thinks that, somewhere in the city, there’s an owner of a vintage clothing shopping who is probably still dancing with joy over this particular Halloween theme), although his is a bit more ornate, and he wears a very elaborate cravat. He’s also carrying a book and wearing a nasal cannula, which thankfully doesn’t appear to be hooked up to anything. Enjolras would ask where he got such a thing, and the obvious answer would be that either Combeferre or Joly nicked it from the sciences building, but Jehan himself, Grantaire, and Bahorel all have slightly dubious connections, and it wouldn’t be beyond one of them to be able to procure a nasal cannula on the down low, and, really, Enjolras gets the feeling that he doesn’t actually want to know.

“Jehan, I don’t even—”

Jehan just smiles in his patient way and says, with the air of someone who genuinely does not mind that he will have to explain this _every time_ because he truly enjoys broadening peoples’ horizons, “Sir Humphrey Davy. Chemist. Experimenter with nitrous oxide. Inventor. Poet.”

“How did you manage that?” Enjolras asks, impressed that Jehan was able to find a scientist who encompassed his literary interests.

“The Romantic Era, friend. What a time to be alive.”

Well, Enjolras isn’t so sure about _that_ , but Jehan’s tone has turned ever-so-slightly dreamy, and he decides that he can just let that one go. He’s been working on this, and when he gives Jehan one last smile instead of making further comment, he sees Éponine smile sweetly at him, and she squeezes his hand, and he feels like turning to Courfeyrac, who’s engaged in deep conversation with Combeferre and Joly over something, and saying _See! I can learn!_ but he thinks that may weaken his argument a little bit.

Musichetta now stands there, tough and fierce and beautiful as Ellen Ripley, and he tells her so, and she grins and tugs Bossuet over, and, for once, he doesn’t trip or fall or otherwise go sprawling on the ground as steps over beside his girlfriend.

Bossuet, in a rather shapeless gray suit, is holding a stuffed shark with a laser pointer attached to its head. Enjolras is not entirely sure _what_ his expression is doing at the moment, but he’s certain that incredulity must heavily factor into it because Bossuet hastily starts to explain, “It’s a shark—”

“With a frickin’ laser!” Enjolras finishes with him.

Everyone in the vicinity stops all conversations to stare at him. He sees at least three dropped jaws, and, honestly, there’s a part of him that’s a little offended, although he knows he has such a bad track record in recognizing pop culture that their surprise is, perhaps, not _entirely_ unwarranted. Still. It doesn’t hurt to needle them sometimes over their shock when he surpasses expectations.

“What! I watch movies!”

Courfeyrac is the one brave and/or reckless enough to refute this. “Um, Enjolras, you _really_ don’t, which is why we started 3M in the first place.”

“Do you _have_ to call it that?” Enjolras doesn’t whine. He _doesn’t_. Except he kind of does whine every time someone insists on calling Mandatory Monthly Movie—first instituted 2 ½ years ago by Courfeyrac when he discovered Enjolras’s deplorable lack of knowledge concerning films and television— _3M_. It has become a sacred part of the group and their collective friendship, in which they gather together at someone’s apartment with food and sweets and quilts and pillows and movies, and he doesn’t like it when it’s tainted by _Corporate America_ , okay, he _really_ doesn’t think he should be blamed for that.

“ _Yes_ , I have to call it that.” Courfeyrac insists, and Enjolras gets the feeling that if Courfeyrac had a podium to pound at that moment, he would be doing so. “It reminds you of corporate greed! It keeps you fired up! It ensures the passion, the drive, the _motivation_ to fight for the people, the _real_ people, the _natural_ people, remains strong and burning within your heart!”

“Yeah, because Enjolras was really in danger of running out of passion, so thanks for that, Courf,” Éponine mutters.

Enjolras turns to her with a raised eyebrow, the _something you wish to say, Ep?_ heavily implied.

“Okay,” Éponine continues, “whenever 3M or any of its corporate ilk are mentioned, your blood pressure shoots up and you start yelling and your caffeine consumption increases by at least an order of magnitude, and we should try to keep all of that to a minimum, because your levels of passion and fire and righteous rage are just fine on their own, they don’t need any outside assistance, back me up ‘Ferre, Joly.”

Combeferre and Joly, who are, now that Enjolras sees them standing next to each other, dressed alarmingly similar, look at Éponine, look at each other, look at Enjolras, and then nod, all completely in unison, and it is downright eerie.

“It is true,” Joly intones solemnly.

“It is for your own health,” Combeferre adds. “So stop it, Courf.”

“You take away all of my fun,” Courfeyrac complains. “But returning to the point! _You_ ,” he gestures at Enjolras, “you do not know movies. Which is why we’ve had to educate you.”

“Right,” Enjolras says slowly. “And the _Austin Powers_ movies were Bahorel’s offering back in March.”

“Yeah, baby!” Bahorel contributes.

“I actually do pay attention!” And now Enjolras really _is_ offended, that they seem to be laboring under the impression that he doesn’t care about these nights, because he does, they mean _so much_ to him, but perhaps standing on the esplanade with half the school milling about is not the place to discuss such things, so he forges on. “And so that’s how I know that Bossuet is dressed as Dr. Evil. _And_ because _last_ October, Grantaire picked _Young Frankenstein_ , I know that Feuilly is Frederick Frankenstein and Bahorel is Igor.”

He deliberately mispronounces _Igor_ , and Bahorel does not miss his cue. “It’s pronounced _eye-gore_.”

Éponine jabs Bahorel in the side with a finger. “Just so you know, as we’re all standing here outside, if I, at _any point_ in the evening, hear the words ‘ _Could be worse_ . . .’ come out of your mouth, I am going to shut you up by whatever means necessary.”

Bahorel is easily twice Éponine’s size, but he still shrinks back slightly from her. “Yes ma’am,” he says quietly.

Enjolras grins, as he always does when Éponine displays that she is not one to be trifled with, and he turns his focus back to Combeferre and Joly, the only ones who have not revealed their costumes.

They’re dressed almost identically, both of them in crisp, tailored suits, slightly more modern than their other friends who have dressed as historical scientists. Joly has opted for a green brocaded waistcoat, whereas Combeferre’s is blue and not brocaded, and Combeferre is wearing a more modern tie, while Joly’s is clearly a cravat. Joly has pasted a fake mustache on his face, while Combeferre hasn’t bothered, although he _has_ foregone his glasses and is therefore squinting slightly.

Although he can sense a tiny bit of irritation in Combeferre’s gaze, which intrigues him, the predominant emotion is pure delight, and Enjolras suddenly _gets it_. “You finally got to be Tesla!”

The smile that spreads across Combeferre’s face is a sight to behold, but he is content to merely reply, “Indeed.”

Enjolras addresses Joly, “So are you Edi—”

“ _No, friend_ ,” Joly interrupts. “I am _not_.”

Combeferre clears his throat and says, “We’re both Tesla.” Enjolras is 100% certain that the only reason he can sense any annoyance at all in Combeferre’s tone is because he’s known him so long and because, at times, he knows Combeferre’s moods better than his own.

He doesn’t want to open this potential can of worms, he _really_ doesn’t, but he has to know. “Is this what’s been causing all the tension lately? You two couldn’t decide who would be Tesla? You could’ve asked me to help, you know, I did it before with the bone people.”

“‘The bone people!’” Combeferre mutters. “Cope and Marsh! Is that so hard?”

Joly, meanwhile, scoffs at Enjolras’s statement that he would have helped. “’Ferre is _your_ best friend! We would have gone to you, and you would’ve made _me_ be Edison, so say Enjolras and so shall it be, and, friend, I just could not do it. I _could not_.”

Enjolras just stares at him in horror. “I _never_ would have _made_ someone be Edison against his will; we would have found another solution. What kind of person do you think I am, anyway?”

Joly and Combeferre both look as though they may be willing to possibly admit that they _perhaps_ took things a bit too far. _Maybe._ Under duress.

“We’re both just really passionate about Tesla,” Combeferre says, not hiding the defensiveness that permeates his tone.

Enjolras can understand that. “Even _I_ know he’s pretty awesome. So, I have to ask,” he adds after Combeferre and Joly share tentative smiles, “how did you arrive at this solution, because ‘Ferre, the only reason you and Courfeyrac agreed for both of you to be Dr. Frank-N-Furter last year was because you were dressing in ways that represented different parts of his personality, so what happened here?”

Grantaire pipes up and starts to explain. “There’s this movie you probably haven’t seen called _The Prestige_ . . . .”

“I’ve seen it,” Enjolras says. “The duplicating machine, and the tank of water. Tesla was in that movie. Although I don’t think he duplicated himself, but I can see why this is a good explanation.” Everyone is, once again, staring at him in shock. “Oh, _what_?”

“That hasn’t been one of our Mandatory Monthly Movies,” Jehan, who keeps track of these things for reasons known only to him, says slowly.

“ _Again_ with the—I _have_ actually seen movies, even without all of you present, you know.”

Bahorel shakes his head. “No, you _really haven’t_ , which, _again_ , is why Courf instituted this in the first place because you hadn’t seen _The Princess Bride_ , which, what the hell, man?” Bahorel, not content to let his disappointment remain with Enjolras, then turns to Combeferre. “And what the hell, Combeferre, you know this guy since you two were seven years old or something, and you let him get all the way to college without seeing _The Princess Bride_? I thought better of you, dude, I really did.”

“No, Bahorel,” Combeferre says, pointing a finger at Bahorel’s face. “I’ve already apologized for this. I am done being castigated for it. I’ve already suffered everyone’s wrath and scorn over my failure as a best friend. I claim double jeopardy. You can’t take me to task over this yet again.”

Bahorel shrugs, already unconcerned over the matter. “Well, worth a shot.”

“I made him watch _The Prestige_ ,” Éponine says.

“ _You_ did?” Feuilly asks.

“Just what do you think we _do_ when we’re together?”

Grantaire smiles disarmingly and swings Éponine around in his arms, eager to avoid another disaster so close on the heels of the last one. “Oh, you know, plot to overthrow the government, make plans to dismantle the patriarchy, argue over issues you actually agree about until you throw him down on the nearest flat surface and have mad, passionate—”

“Oh, we definitely do all of that,” Enjolras breaks in. He doesn’t wink, but he makes sure that it’s implied in his tone. “It’s just that sometimes we also watch movies and go out to dinner and do usual ‘date’ things. While smashing the patriarchy, of course.”

Everyone laughs, but the thing is, he’s not lying, that _is_ actually what ends up happening more often than not when he’s with Éponine. Well, maybe not plot to _overthrow_ the government, so much as _reform_ it, you know, _extensively_ , but other than that, Grantaire was pretty on the mark with what they do when they’re together, including, well, he senses the faintest blush beginning to rise, so he’s just going to stop _that_ train of thought _right there_.

Éponine smirks, as though she can tell what he’s thinking, and she probably can, she can read him almost disconcertingly well, _almost_ , and part of him thinks that he should be perturbed by that, but the rest of him finds that he really doesn’t mind, not at all. She tugs his head down and gives him a peck on the cheek, the most affection they usually allow each other in public.

He can’t stop himself from gazing back at her, but in his peripheral vision, he sees Courfeyrac taking advantage of the lighthearted mood and slinging an arm around both Joly’s and Combeferre’s shoulders. He orders them, nicely, but also in a way that lets them know that they really don’t have any choice, to hug it out.

Enjolras presses a kiss to the top of Éponine’s head and looks up in time to see Courfeyrac and Combeferre and Joly in the middle of a six-armed hug.

“Joly, I’ve been thinking,” Combeferre states, his voice slightly muffled by Courfeyrac’s top hat, “Maybe we should amend the unofficial rules of the Great Halloween Rival Scientist Costume Contest to include a rule that provides veto powers, no questions asked, in case one of us is morally opposed to the scientist that the other is asking us to portray.”

Joly murmurs his agreement, barely audible from where his face is mashed into Courfeyrac’s shoulder. He pulls back. “We should also start thinking about next year.”

Enjolras smiles at the assumption that they’ll continue their tradition when they’re in medical school and possibly beyond.

“How do you feel about Newton and Leibniz?” Combeferre asks, not even needing to think about rivalry options. He probably has a whole cache of them stored somewhere in his brain, Enjolras wouldn’t put it past him.

Joly nods enthusiastically. “Now that definitely has potential.”

You know, Enjolras thinks, his friends really are the best.

**Author's Note:**

> I WISH I could take credit for Courfeyrac's Alexander Graham Bell/"Call Me, Maybe" costume, but that was entirely Hiyas. She also suggested the costumes for Éponine, Enjolras, Bossuet, Cosette, Marius, and the Frankenstein idea.
> 
> The "dinosaur guys"/"bone guys" (aka Combeferre and Joly's costumes from two years ago) are Edward Drinker Cope and Othniel Charles Marsh, two paleontologists who had a pretty interesting rivalry called [The Bone Wars](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bone_Wars). Also, it's not referenced, but in my head, they did an obvious one their freshman year and went as Steve Jobs and Bill Gates.
> 
> Stop by [tumblr](http://norationalthoughtrequired.tumblr.com/) and say hello! We can share our favorite fluffy headcanons involving these nerds, and it'll be awesome.


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